Paris: The Memoir(5)

One of my earliest memories is sitting on Andy Warhol’s lap, drawing pictures at an after-party at the Waldorf-Astoria. He loved me and always told my mom, “This kid is going to be a huge star.”

I love that my parents included us in all that. You might think fancy business and social events would be boring for a little kid, but I lived for those parties. I learned to appreciate the architecture of a good ball gown. I was exposed to great music: jazz combos, string quartets, and private performances by famous artists. I sat like a butterfly on a fence, eavesdropping on adult conversations about corporate maneuvers, real estate deals, fortunes being made and lost, ill-advised love affairs, and messy divorces. It was all about love and money, two things that fascinated me because everyone seemed to be under the spell of one or the other.

The first time I experienced going to a club environment, I was twelve. Nicky and I were friends with Pia Zadora’s daughter Kady, and Pia was friends with our mom, so we got to go with Pia to a New Kids on the Block concert in LA. Because Pia was a celebrity, we got to go backstage—and we were, like, dying.

“We’re going to Bar One for the after-party,” the boys told Pia. “You should come.”

Nicky and Kady and I were like, “We have to go! Please! Pleeeeeeeease!” We were all totally obsessed with New Kids. Pia was cool, so we went over to Bar One, and the bouncers let her right in because celebrity.

The atmosphere inside Bar One blew my tiny mind. I had an immediate visceral response like yaaassssss because—LIGHTS MUSIC LAUGHTER FASHION MUSIC JOY LIGHTS WHITE TEETH DIAMONDS MUSIC—a blast of the flashy sensory input my ADHD brain constantly craved. I didn’t know I was feeling an actual shift in my body chemistry, but I knew I was feeling something real, and I loved it. Every part of me came alive—body, brain, skin, spirit—and it felt awesome.

Unfortunately, just as I was soaking all this in, we bumped into my mom’s sister. Aunt Kyle was like, “WTF!” She dragged Pia aside for a brief, hissy conversation and then took us home, but I knew I had to go back.

In my early teens, I took advantage of every sneak-out opportunity I could create. I became one of those Desperately Seeking Susan club kids who ruled the nighttime world in the early nineties. The vogue dancers, drag queens, and Harajuku girls took me under their wings and watched out for me, which is how I learned the key elements of partying like a rock star:

Stay hydrated.

Stay pretty (tipsy can be cute, but drunk is gross).

Wear boots—like good, sturdy platform boots—and comfortable clothes so you can dance all night and easily climb in and/or out of windows and over fences as needed.



I didn’t drink or do drugs back then. When I was a kid, fun was the only party drug I needed. I wasn’t there to get wasted; I was there to dance. Alcohol and drugs are for escaping reality, and I wanted all the reality I could get. The escape drinking didn’t happen until later.

One night after the Pia Zadora club adventure, I tried to smuggle Nicky, our cousin Farah, and our friend Khloé Kardashian into Bar One. Khloé and Farah were little middle school girls, so I did Khloé up with full makeup, a long red wig, and a floppy black hat.

I told her, “If anyone asks, your name is Betsey Johnson.”

I put Farah on top of somebody’s shoulders with a big trench coat. We put so much effort into our disguises, we were shocked when we didn’t get past the velvet rope.

“I guess you need to be with someone famous,” I said.

I didn’t like how it felt to be rejected in front of everyone. I wasn’t going to let it happen again. When I was sixteen, I hooked up fake IDs for Nicky and me. We weren’t fooling anyone, but we were getting a little bit famous, so we had no trouble getting in Bar One (now Bootsy Bellows), Roxbury (now Pink Taco), and other hot spots.

My partying opportunities between the ages of sixteen and eighteen were limited, because I was locked up in a series of culty wilderness boot camps and “emotional-growth boarding schools.” When I escaped for a few blessed weeks of freedom, I played it safe with small beach parties and living room gatherings where kids were just chilling and talking, until I made everyone get up and dance. Especially kids who were too shy or felt self-conscious about their bodies. They’re the ones who need dancing most. This is still the rule at every gig I DJ in my virtual world or in real life: When you party with Paris, you dance.

At eighteen, I signed with a modeling agency, and what do you think people want to do after a runway show? Party with models. It’s easy to think no duh, but move past the easy assumption that men are pigs and models are dumb. That’s not fair or true or useful. Most men are basically decent, I think, and successful models travel all over the world. Traveling the world is the best education there is. Most models are in their teens and twenties, and sometimes that lack of maturity shows, but they’re growing. Give them a minute.

Networking—knowing how to work a party—is a critical aspect of growing a business. In my twenties, I was so good at both partying and business, people started paying me to come to their parties. I didn’t invent getting paid to party, but I reinvented it. I’m proud to be called the OG influencer. Girls need to understand the value they bring to the party. It’s a lot more than standing around looking pretty. Mannequins can do that. An accomplished party girl is a facilitator, a negotiator, a diplomat—she’s the sparkler and the match.